Meet Hiba Abid
If you find yourself wandering through the stacks at The New York Public Library, you might run into Hiba Abid, the Library’s first-ever Curator of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies — she spends most of her time on the second floor of the flagship location in Bryant Park, but she loves the Library Services Center in Queens, too. When she’s not at the library, you might spot her flipping through the selection at a record store on a Sunday morning or stopping in at a café. We stopped by Hiba’s apartment to chat about working at The New York Public Library, the traces of history left in manuscripts, and clubbing alone.
on family
There are three of us — me and my two brothers. One is six years older and lives in Myanmar; the other is just a year younger and calls Paris home. Our parents are in Tunis, where we were raised. My mom, a retired professor from the School of Fine Arts of Tunis, immersed us in the world of contemporary and modern art. She has a particular love for Otto Dix and Francis Bacon. Our house was always open to her students who needed space to draw and paint, and she often provided the supplies. The art school's library, unfortunately, was neglected, making it tough for students to access resources, so when my siblings and I moved to France, my mom would send us lists of art books to buy for her and bring back. These books became her teaching tools. My dad, also retired now, is a civil engineering graduate who worked various jobs to support our education in France. My parents are my closest friends, and every day typically starts with a phone or video call where we catch up on my work, their olive trees, the cats Zina and Aziza, Dad's latest favorite film, my rants about New York, and their complaints about Tunis.
on going to Paris to study
Studying art history in Tunisia wasn't an option — it's barely taught at universities, and at the School of Fine Arts, it's only a brief course, not a degree. Over the years, Tunisia, like many other countries, has sidelined the humanities in favor of fields like engineering, finance, and medicine. So, my dream was clear. Perhaps it was because my mom was a professor, but I always knew what I wanted: go to France, study art history, earn a PhD, and return to Tunisia to teach art history.
Tunisia is an ethnically and religiously homogeneous society, so I never really considered what it meant to be Arab or to look Arab. Until I moved to France. I had absorbed French language, history, culture, and literature, making them my own. Yet, that didn't seem to be enough. In France, it often feels like nothing is ever enough if your name is Abderrahman or Soumaya. Being North African, Arab, or Muslim can sometimes mean being perceived as a bothersome neighbor or a troubling part of their history. During my time there, it became crucial for me to connect with others who shared a similar ethnic background and experience, and I learned a great deal from my French friends with Maghribi heritage.
on the archeology of books and Islamic art history
I studied art history and archaeology and eventually specialized in Islamic art history because I was captivated by the classes at the Sorbonne. I was particularly fascinated by a course that explored materiality, iconography, and paleography in Islamic manuscripts. The intimacy of the book as a medium and the way studying it from a material perspective is similar to an archaeological excavation truly transformed my life, career, and aspirations. I went on to do my PhD in Codicology and Art History. Codicology is the study of the physical aspects of manuscripts, or codices — the plural of codex. It’s often called the 'archaeology of the book' because it lets you uncover the different layers of a book’s life: how it was made and the various ways it was used and read.
At first glance, a manuscript might seem like a silent artifact, merely a vessel for written text. But when you look at other parts of the book like marginal comments from an assiduous reader, dark fingerprints in the margins, or damaged images that have been scraped and touched by pious hands, you realize how much these seemingly minor details reveal about people's engagement with these books, both practically and emotionally. This is why I liken it to archaeology — there are so many layers to uncover beyond the text and the manuscript as object.
My PhD focused on a 15th-century devotional prayer book from Morocco — a Sufi text with litanies dedicated to the Prophet Muhammad, titled Dala'il al-Khayrat by Muhammad b. Sulayman al-Jazuli. This book was widely read across the Muslim world from the 15th to the 19th century and is still used today. In my research, I examined how manuscript copies of this text were produced, used, and illustrated. I explored the significance of illustrating a religious text and looked into how religious images function within an aniconic tradition, particularly when depicting a sacred figure like the Prophet.
The study of Islamic art still needs a thorough reexamination, from the objects we study to the methodologies we use. It's surprising that many Islamic art historians do not see the necessity of learning Middle Eastern languages or reading historical sources. We need more systematic collaboration with scholars from other fields like anthropology, philology, and Islamology. The assumption that art must be figurative to be considered art or a higher artistic form should be challenged. For instance, the images I studied in my thesis consist of highly stylized and abstract designs, yet they convey a sense of the sacred that isn't visible to the eye but can be deeply felt and experienced, as demonstrated by textual sources.
““In Tunisia, art exists through individual resilience and resistance. My mom always said that anyone who pursues art there is essentially an activist, as it demands immense effort and determination.””
on side jobs
During my time in Paris, I had to juggle various side jobs. I started as a babysitter, then received a small grant from Tunisia to study art history, recognizing the need to train Tunisian art historians. But when a new government took over, they cut the funding. So, I ended up working at Le Duc des Lombards, a well-known jazz club.
Being an immigrant without my parents around, I leaned on a network of friends but missed the support of adult figures or mentors. Balancing late-night shifts at the jazz club, often working until the early hours, with my PhD writing was tough and sometimes left me feeling quite isolated. It took me a bit longer to finish my PhD, which I completed at 29. Afterward, I moved into research and teaching roles, which eventually led me to this fantastic position I hold now at NYPL.
on her time in academia
I always thought I’d return to Tunisia to teach manuscript studies. Tunisia boasts one of the world’s most important collections of Islamic manuscripts, preserved at the National Laboratory for the Preservation and Conservation of Parchment and Manuscripts (NLPCPM) in Raqqada, Kairouan. Scholars from around the globe have studied these manuscripts, though they’re not well-known among Tunisians. Despite my efforts to go back and contribute in any way I can, including offering to teach for free, every attempt eventually fell through. Meanwhile, I found myself increasingly uneasy in French academia, where the subtle racism I encountered in the most unexpected circles became more and more apparent.
What I appreciate about the French approach to Islamic art history is their steadfast commitment to grounding their work in textual sources. French academics are meticulous, ensuring that every claim or assumption is firmly supported by evidence. On the other hand, I enjoy the American perspective for its greater freedom and interpretive flexibility. American scholars often shift between diverse topics and time periods — one day focusing on Ilkhanid ceramics and the next on the visual culture of the Nation of Islam, which a French scholar might avoid. This flexibility can lead to a richer exploration of methodologies, and it’s this range and freedom that I wanted to get familiar with.
In 2021, I landed a position at NYU’s Silsila Center for Material Histories led by Finbarr Barry Flood. At the same time, I received a one-year fellowship from the Getty Foundation in LA, so I had to choose between the two. I had some history with New York and had always envisioned spending a year or two at an American university to expand my methodology and teach. I decided to take the NYU job, and it turned out to be an incredible experience. I taught a survey course on Islamic Art and Archaeology of North Africa, covering everything from the Arab Conquest to Modernism. North Africa is often overlooked in Islamic art curricula in the U.S., usually bundled with the art and archeology of the Iberian Peninsula, so I was excited to introduce students to the region’s rich and complex history. In the second semester, I focused on the manuscript as an object — its aesthetics, materiality, and uses.
““As much as I wish I could simply think of myself as just Hiba, without the weight of identity, political and societal forces inevitably shape our inner sense of self. Ignoring identity is not a privilege we can afford, and recent events over the past few months have made that very clear.””
on moving to new york and discovering house music
I visited New York a few times before moving here for good. My trips were mostly driven by academic projects and my love for jazz. I’d met many American jazz musicians while waitressing in Paris, so after 2015, I started coming to New York to catch up with them and soak up the jazz scene. I frequented spots like Jazz Standard, Smalls, Mezzrow, Fat Cat, and more recently, Ornithology. But over time, house music began to take over for me. In my opinion, different kinds of music can resonate with you at various stages in your life.
My first year in New York was quite challenging. I felt lonely and lost. Luckily, my friend Hugo Lascoux, a talented House DJ known as Hugo LX, kept me in the loop about where his friends were DJing — places like Nowadays, Public Records, or Friends and Lovers. I decided to venture out on my own, and that’s how I stumbled into the house music scene and met people connected to it.
Going out alone to clubs was a revelation. It was unlike anything I’d experienced in Paris, and it felt like an essential part of New York’s magic and musical legacy. Immersing myself in the music and connecting with people from all walks of life was incredibly liberating. The club scene was warm and welcoming, with no awkwardness — just a shared love for the music that brought everyone together. Later, I met my partner, who shares a deep and longstanding passion for the House music scene. We’ve made it a ritual to go dancing together at least once a week, often to see the originators of House music which we are so spoiled to have so many of still active in New York (Danny Krivit, Louie Vega, Joe Claussel, DJ Spinna, and more).
on her dream job at the NYPL
While teaching at NYU, I came across a job opening for a Curator of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at The New York Public Library, an institution and a collection that I already knew well. I thought, This is exactly what I want to do. It is what I want to be. I had always wondered about the purpose of my work: What’s the point of studying manuscripts and books from the Middle East and North Africa if that knowledge remains locked within a small academic circle? What does it mean to be an academic? Who am I writing for when I publish an article or essay? How can I bring the magic of libraries and manuscript collections to a broader audience?
This role felt like the perfect fit because it allowed me to continue working with books and manuscripts while also engaging with prints, photographs, and archives. It also provided the opportunity to share these unique collections with both scholars and local and international communities, making the knowledge more accessible and alive.
At the time, I was grappling with the idea of staying in the U.S. and whether teaching at private universities was the right path for me. I couldn’t quite adjust to that idea. Then, the NYPL opportunity appeared, and it felt like the answer to my existential and political questions about making knowledge accessible to everyone. Working at one of the few genuinely free services in New York City is deeply meaningful to me.
The NYPL is remarkable because it’s not just a public library with numerous branches like Brooklyn Public Library or Queens Public Library; it’s also a research library with special collections — manuscripts, archives, photographs, fine art, and prints. Many people don’t realize that beyond the bustling main building, teeming with tourists, lies a treasure trove of rare and often one-of-a-kind historical gems. Coming to work every day at one of the most important public library systems in the world and overseeing these unique collections feels like a true privilege.
“ “As a colleague put it this week, the most amazing part of the NYPL is the P — public.””
on interpreting special collections for the public
From the moment I began working at NYPL, I felt a deep sense of dedication to this collection. I was already acquainted with it, having used NYPL manuscripts for my own research. There’s a special commitment that comes with working for a public library, especially one that holds such a rich collection of Middle Eastern, North African, and South Asian history and culture, formed in the late 19th century. I believe more people should discover and engage with these treasures, and that’s one of my goals.
I like to refer to myself as a curator-librarian because it best captures the essence of my daily work. Part of my role involves sharing and interpreting the collection. This could mean writing about it, organizing class visits, or hosting groups. For instance, I’m currently working with an association of Egyptian women from Astoria who are eager to explore our collection, so I’m curating materials that resonate with their interests. There’s also a youth group from the St. Antonious & St. Mina Coptic Orthodox Church in East Rutherford, New Jersey, planning a visit this summer. And just last Friday, graduate students from Bard Graduate Center came by with their professor to consult our manuscripts for their class on Islamic and Jewish medieval magic and cosmography.
on building a collection
Since the library serves both the public and researchers, I have the unique task of acquiring materials for both general research and special collections. For the general research collection, I rely on vendors and libraries based in the Middle East and North Africa to select the latest publications on specific topics we’re interested in. Each year, I attend the Cairo Book Fair, an incredible experience where I get to meet publishers, writers, and readers from all over the Arab world.
For special collections, I seek out unique materials at antiquarian book fairs, such as the Antiquarian Book Fair or the New York Photography Fair at the Park Avenue Armory, and through trusted vendors in the U.S., the Middle East, and Europe, either recommended by the Library or by fellow Middle East librarians. One of my priorities is to develop new areas of research and collecting at NYPL, reflecting the current artistic, literary, and political productions in the Middle East, North Africa, and South Asia, and their diasporas. So, I also acquire zines, ephemera, and artists' books, often produced in limited print runs.
When collecting manuscripts, photographs, and archives for our special collections, I ask myself a few key questions: Will researchers find this item useful? Does it build on an existing strength in our collections? And can it be showcased effectively? We’re a library with exhibition spaces on the first and third floors, so we’re not just a repository of books. Unlike museums that often deal with visual or three-dimensional items, which can be more straightforward to display, we focus on textual objects. The challenge is to make these texts engaging even when they’re behind glass.
I regularly meet and talk with fellow Middle East librarians from other institutions, exchanging insights on potential acquisitions, collection interpretation, and the ethical nuances of managing archives. There’s a collaborative spirit rather than competition among us because every acquisition is a deliberate choice to either enhance our respective collections or pass it on to another institution where it might be a better fit.
For instance, while I’m always eager to expand our rich early 20th-century photography collection from Egypt, I’d pass on a 17th-century Morisco manuscript I recently encountered at a book fair. Despite its rarity, it wouldn’t fit well at NYPL because there isn’t an existing group of manuscripts from that period and community for it to complement. This also applies to North African materials — such as those from Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, and Mauritania — which currently aren’t a strong focus in our collection. However, if a significant archive from a North African writer or artist based in New York or the U.S. were to become available, I’d be keen to consider it. Ultimately, building and expanding a collection is about creating a coherent and cohesive whole.
““My sense of beauty has been profoundly shaped by my mom’s reverence for the Tunisian and North African ‘ancient’ beauty canon, though I’ve been questioning these notions lately. She’s not conservative, but she has a deep passion for history and a fondness for the Past. She would always remind me, ‘Don’t try to conform to the standards of your time. Beauty doesn’t always lie in the Present.’””
on the presence and absence of religion
Despite growing up in a very secular family and receiving a secular education, religion seems to find its way into my life almost daily, especially since my work and research revolve around religious materials. My interest in devotional Islam and Sufism, along with their related objects and practices, probably has roots in my childhood visits to Muslim saints in Tunis — a tradition I still uphold. Both of my parents grew up in homes where Sufi saints were buried, a backstory that might sound like it could be unpacked in a therapy session to explain my research choices.
In Tunisian and North African religious life, visiting Sufi shrines is a lively and deeply rooted tradition. I’ve always been drawn to these spaces because they challenge any outsider's (or Westerner's) ideas about Islam. In a mausoleum in Marrakech or Tunis, you might find a sex worker standing next to a religious scholar, both praying to the saint's grave. I love the unique atmosphere of these places — their distinct smell, their soundscape, which is both solemn and relaxed, amplified by the acoustics of the dome. Some people come to pray with deep reverence, while others use the shrine as a substitute for home. Some even hang out with family or friends, catching up on gossip or recipes. To me, no matter how much academics study these spaces and phenomena, they’ll never fully capture or define their meaning in Western terms. I’d sum it up with a humorous note: religion is in my life today just like it is in a Tunisian shrine. It’s there, and yet, it’s probably not.
on beauty
My sense of beauty has been profoundly shaped by my mom’s views. As a child, she wouldn’t let me cut my long hair; she would only permit trims or let my grandmother trim it during a full moon, based on the belief that it would help the hair grow faster. My mom never allowed me to shape my eyebrows, insisting that thick brows were a symbol of beauty in Tunisia, to the extent that women would emphasize them to resemble a 'nakhla' or palm tree. While this was common until the ‘60s and ‘70s, it wasn’t exactly fun as a teenager dealing with comments at school. We still argue about this; just last year, my aunt shaped my eyebrows in front of my mom, who was upset but in a 'nice mad' way. My mom also loves it when I use kohl, which I’d been wearing since I was 15 but stopped using abruptly when I moved to New York.
Living in New York has really changed how I see beauty and aesthetics, especially when it comes to my hair. I owe it all to my amazing hairdresser in Bed-Stuy, who works wonders with her hands. Judith, who’s from Ghana and has been here for years, really understands curly hair and doesn’t treat it like something exotic that needs a three-hour session and a $300 bill. Finding the right hairdresser in Paris was tough because curly hair there is still seen as 'special' and they make a big deal out of it. I never understood why I should pay extra for hair that I see as just normal.
This is the first job I’ve had that requires me to be at work every day, and as a result, to wear makeup daily, which I'm not particularly fond of. I prefer minimal products on my skin. Each morning, I do just the basics: I cover up dark circles, apply a bit of blush, and draw a thin line of eyeliner using a French vegan and organic brand called Boho Green. I also make sure to moisturize both morning and evening, and I've been using Argan oil that I brought back from Morocco on a recent trip.
on what she’s reading
Oublier Camus was written by Oliver Gloag, a writer and professor of French and Francophone Literature, and can be defined as a sort of reexamination of Albert Camus, long revered as a voice against French colonialism in Algeria. The book was published by La Fabrique Editions — one of my cherished French publishers founded by the late Éric Hazan — and challenges the long-held myth of Camus as an anti-colonialist writer.
It’s fascinating to see how this book has stirred reactions across the French political spectrum, both Right and Left, who for decades upheld the image of Camus as a noble, anti-colonialist writer. Reflecting on my own teenage years in Tunisia, I recognize the disillusionment Gloag's work evokes, confronting the reality of Camus's colonialist stance and the way he depicted Algerians in his literature.
With the book soon to be translated into English, it’s an opportunity for American scholars and readers to engage more critically with these complex legacies and understand the broader historical context of these celebrated French writers, especially in the U.S.
Archives des luttes des femmes en Algérie is a remarkable work by my friend, Algerian anthropologist and researcher Awel Haouati, who generously sent me a copy last year. She collaborated with researcher Saadia Gacem and photographer-archivist Lydia Saïdi to create a fascinating archival exploration of photographs and ephemera from Algerian feminist collectives and associations active in the late 1980s. This project is a crucial endeavor on Algerian history, led by scholars and practitioners from Algeria, and it brings to light voices and stories often overlooked in traditional histories. It's vital to spotlight these narratives, which are likely absent from the textbooks taught in school.
hiba’s favorite spots in new york city
Neighborhoods: Jackson Heights is the neighborhood I visit whenever I miss home. I learned about it years before moving to NYC through Frederick Wiseman's documentary In Jackson Heights, and the reality exceeded my imagination. Astoria, particularly Steinway Street, is another of my sweetest remedies for homesickness. There's nothing that grilled fish at Abuqir's, an Algerian sandwich from Merguez and Frites, or hearing Arabic, Turkish, and Greek can't fix.
Restaurants and Cafés: One of my favorite restaurants in New York is Hibino on Henry Street. I love it because it feels like dining at an aunt's home rather than at a typical New York restaurant, which often feels more like a commercial setup where the bill lands on your table while you're still savoring your dessert. I also adore many Yemeni cafes in Astoria, especially Mokafe Coffee House and Qahwah House, known for their Adeni chai — a strong, cardamom-spiced tea with evaporated milk. Other favorites include Tibetan NY Lhasa Liang Fen in Jackson Heights, any panipuri food stand nearby, a hidden Uzbek restaurant in Brighton Beach (it doesn't have a name), All Blues, a Tokyo-style listening bar where talking is not allowed, and my neighborhood Japanese coffee shop, Cotton Bean.
Record stores: I used to visit A1 Record Shop quite a lot, but now that I’ve moved to Brooklyn, I find myself spending more time at Cosmic Arts. This small record store, with its wonderfully intimate atmosphere, was opened by DJ Joe Claussell shortly before the pandemic. He started by selling records and duplicates from his collection, and it has since become a venue for occasional live shows and DJ sets. What I particularly love is that it’s only open on Saturday afternoons and by appointment on Fridays.
images by clémence polès, edited by meghan racklin